We make a big screamin’,
Zey fling a big reim in—
Zey catch ze brave Baron—comme ça—par la jambe—
Ze clothes vos departed,
He sigh, zen he started—
And after some cognac he say, “Vare I am?”
Ah! but he vos plucky,
He say he vos “lucky”—
He vos bruise on his back, and scratch on his knees—
Ze horses vare no vare!
Ze buggy turn ovare!
So he walk for five miles—in top boots and chemise?
A. Brodrick.
Pretoria, 1882.
SOUTH AFRICAN COURTSHIP.
The girl I love was bred and born
Close to the “winding” neck of Horn,[20]
’Neath Cashan’s purple splendour.
She is so fair, she is so good,
That, in her simple womanhood,
You cannot mar or mend her.
You cannot mar her or improve—
Her voice is like the wild wood dove
Cooing by river branches,
Her neck (unlike the neck of Horn)
Is white as Alpine snow down-borne
By summer avalanches.
She is as graceful as the beech—
Her lips are ripe as blooming peach,
Or like small twin tomatoes;
Her hair is black, her earrings jet,
Nature and art together met—
For she to each a part owes.
Her teeth are white as sea-cow’s tusk,
And gleam upon you in the dusk—
Her eyes blue as seringa;
Her foot is shapely, and her hand,
And on her finger shines a band
Of gold—her little finger!